


a crown of rust and leaves

by Ias



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Antagonism, Class Issues, Leadership, M/M, Politics, Slow Burn, bard and thranduil argue a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-10 06:01:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3279410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ias/pseuds/Ias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil did not seem the type to try to keep friends. Yet Bard could scarcely go a day without being summoned to the Elvenking's tent, to finalize every trade and tax agreement between their two realms for the next five hundred years. </p><p>[With the first winter quickly closing in on Dale, Bard and Thranduil have very different ideas on what it means to be a leader.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I technically have all of this written, but I'm posting the second part in 2-3 days so I have more time to edit it. Until then, enjoy! 
> 
> Thanks to my beta [Margotkim](http://margotkim.tumblr.com) for all her hard work, and to [Cutlerbeckettt](http://cutlerbeckettt.tumblr.com) for patiently listening to me scream about titles for almost an hour. You guys make it happen.

The moment Bard saw the young man making his way through the crowded infirmary he knew what was coming. He'd gotten very good at picking out the signs—the slightly hunched shoulders, the mix of embarrassment and indignation. They were trademarks of an encounter with the only person in Dale who was capable of stripping a man's self esteem faster than a wolf tearing flesh from a bone. The youth—who was likely a man grown, by necessity if not by age—caught sight of Bard and immediately made his way over.

He heard Sigrid sigh beside him. "Well da, looks like duty calls."

"We don't know that," Bard lied, folding another weathered shirt and setting it aside. For most of the day Bard and his daughter had been working to patch and distribute the extra clothes to all who had need of it. Bard had little skill with a needle, but it had to be done and there were few enough hands to do it. Sorting through all the wood, furniture and clothing that could be salvaged from the shores of the Lake was a massive task, but at least it was simple. Bard found that he valued simplicity more and more these days. By the look on the approaching messenger's face, it would have to wait.

"Lord Bard," the messenger said, coming to a halt in front of them. "I've come to tell you that—"

"—Lord Thranduil would like to see me," Bard finished with a sigh. "Is that correct?" The young man nodded. "Thank you. You may return to your duties." The man nodded and hurried away, leaving Bard to reflect on what exactly the Elvenking might want this time.

He turned to Sigrid. "Perhaps we should finish sorting these first?" he said, a tad forlornly.

Sigrid shook her head. "Better to not keep the elves waiting."

"They can certainly afford to more than we can," Bard muttered, but he set down the shirt he had been trying to mend with a sigh. "You're right, of course. I think you might be better this than I am. I ought to appoint you king in my place."

Sigrid laughed with a roll of her eyes. "No thanks, da. Now go on." She smacked him on the arm playfully. "Go do your kinging."

Bard wrapped his arm around her shoulders and squeezed her into a half-way hug. "Your wish is my command, Lady Sigrid."

Her laughter followed him as he made his way out of what had become Dale's infirmary. It was one of the few buildings which required little work to make it livable, unlike most of the other dwellings in Dale. Still, space was scarce, and this building was largely occupied by the weak or injured. Bard nodded to the few he recognized as he passed, offering a word of comfort where he could. It was never enough, he knew. But he had to do something. No matter what he did, there were always more stones to be moved, more food to be distributed, more injured to comfort. It was exhausting, and there was no end in sight.

The air outside felt raw in his throat as he walked, the chill settling deep. Winters here were long, and brutal. Time was running out on the reconstruction efforts if they hoped to have shelter before the first snows swept through. If Bard was to be honest, the only reason they had lasted this long was in thanks to a certain King of Mirkwood, bringing food and medicine in their darkest hours like the answers to their prayers. But Thranduil was no deity, no matter how he might style himself, and Bard did not doubt that his aid would come with a price **.**

Bard had yet to decide whether his actions were those of an ally, or simply an opportunist. The cart of supplies had arrived just in time to feed the hungry refugees from Laketown—and give them strength to die in a fight which was not their own. Before the battle, his strange and sudden partnership with the Lord of Mirkwood had held fast under the pressure of an oncoming slaughter; the choice was to stand together, or be rent apart. But and the battle had passed, and now what held them together was less clear. Thranduil did not see the type to try to keep friends—or people close to him of any sort, for that matter. Yet Bard could scarcely go a day without being summoned to the Elvenking's tent to finalize every trade and tax detail between their two realms for the next five hundred years.

He made his way through the tent city which had sprung up in the unused courtyards until he came to Thranduil's tent, the largest and most ornate of all of them. The guards outside knew him well by now, and Bard  did not hesitate before throwing aside the tent flap and stepping inside.

Thranduil was, predictably, pouring himself a glass of wine, his back turned to Bard. His robes were of as fine a make as any, silver and charcoal grey, entwined with the pattern of vines. As much as the Master had enjoyed his finery, he had never managed to come close to the ease that Thranduil displayed with displaying his wealth. Thranduil wore it as if it were his right to do so, and that set Bard on edge.

"My Lord Thranduil," he said when the elf did not immediately acknowledge him. "I believe you asked after me."

"I did." The Elvenking did not turn his attention from his wine, and Bard did not press with formalities. Wary he may be around the elf-king, but bowing and scraping had never been Bard's strong suit.

"A bit early for a drink," he commented instead.

"I have had many long years in which distill knowledge into wisdom," Thranduil said in his low, measured voice. Bard braced himself for a lecture on the values of Elvish culture—but when Thranduil turned back to him he held two cups in his hand. "One thing which I have learned is that it's never too early for a drink."

Bard accepted the cup with a half-incredulous, half-conceding raise of his eyebrows. Thranduil took a seat on the rudimentary throne, watching Bard with an expression that said that he was an elf and he would stare if he wanted to. Bard returned it unflinchingly, sipping his wine and letting the silence drag on. Still, it was all Bard could do not to grimace. The wine was very, very strong.

"You know, you really should stop enlisting my men from their duties to run your errands," Bard said at last.

"Attending to you is one of their duties," Thranduil replied.

Bard repressed a sigh, deciding not to push the issue. "So, is it export taxes on exotic fruits that we're discussing this time? Or did we finally lay that to rest?"

"I suppose our current agreement will stand," Thranduil said. "Although you mistakenly included raspberries in your previous document. For your future reference, berries fall under the same category as nuts."

"Wonderful," Bard muttered. "I will be sure to remember that."

Thranduil tilted his head. "As for today, I had hoped to discuss what type of crops you intend to raise—only for the next decade, of course. A preliminary estimate is all I require, so we may begin deciding on whether the old tariffs will stand."

Bard stared at him blankly. "It's nearly winter. We can't start planting for months."

Thranduil sighed. "I suppose that means you have not yet decided." He stood up and meandered over to a table near the center of the room, spread with crinkling maps. The elf perused one of them while drinking wine. "Dale has grown both wheat and corn historically, if memory serves. We can base our negotiations on buying seed off of that, at the very least."

Bard couldn't help but scrutinize the elf more closely as he was absorbed in his maps. It was easy to forget the span of years he must have witnessed, the fact that he could draw up information from centuries ago by simply visiting his memory. It was not difficult to imagine how such a creature could disregard the plights of Man in favor of glittering jewels. Such treasures would remain unchanged for as long as the elf could live, while Bard and his people would become little more than another memory to be idly reviewed, or simply forgotten. And this was the person whose fortunes Dale largely depended on. It was not a comforting thought.

"As for the crop export tariffs for trade between our kingdoms," Thranduil continued, "the exact percentages will remain flexible with the market. But we should agree on a baseline to begin with. I am willing to take suggestions."

Bard realized Thranduil was looking for input. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Ah, I know not. How about ten percent?"

His suggestion was met with a blank stare. He cleared his throat a tad nervously. "I take it that wasn't a good answer."

Thranduil sighed. "Eight percent might be acceptable."

Bard nearly laughed until he realized the elf king was serious. "My lord," Bard said, fighting the note of frustration in his voice, "With all due respect, I fail to see how debating two percentage points of a currently meaningless tax will benefit my people."

Thranduil stared at him. "The difference of a single percent may seem insignificant over a year, but in two hundred years the cumulative effect will be much more evident. Assuming your kingdom lasts that long."

"What good is it to assure them that their grandchildren will live in a city whose tax laws have all been agreed on, when they don't even know that they will survive the winter?" Bard asked in irritation.

"These decisions will effect whether your peoples' grandchildren live in a prosperous society or a tenuous one," Thranduil replied. "Trade and diplomacy are the cornerstones of all great nations. I promise yours will not thrive without them."

Bard did not comment on the fact that Thranduil had the means to enforce that promise, if he chose to cut off ties of diplomacy with Dale. Better to simply give the elf what he wanted and be done with it. Instead he leaned back and swished the wine around his cup with an idle gesture. "I will agree to eight percent, then. Was there some other important business to discuss?"

Thranduil seemed satisfied that he had won whatever bout Bard had unwittingly partaken in. "There is the matter of the dwarves. They too are requesting rations of food for the winter."

A wry smile sprung to Bard's lips in spite of himself. "I would not have expected King Thorin to unbend his pride enough to ask for help from the elves."

"I believe Thorin is too busy fighting to survive the injuries he sustained in the battle to make any decisions on how to run his kingdom," Thranduil said. "We should take advantage of the time before he heals to do as much work as possible. I doubt he will as reasonable as his advisors, especially if the dragon sickness does not break its hold on him."

Bard nodded. "So they've asked you for aid," he mused. "And you would have me advise you on whether or not to give it to them?"

"Actually, I had hoped to hear your opinion on how much to charge them for it," Thranduil said lightly. A slight frown creased his brow. "Is it acceptable to let them starve?"

Bard pinched the bridge of his nose. "No, Lord Thranduil. That would be immoral."

Thranduil looked vaguely disappointed. "Very well. They will have their food, for a price."

Bard tapped his fingers on the side of his cup. "Charge them what you would have asked of Laketown in exchange for your supplies."

"I would rather charge them twice that, now that they have little choice but to accept."

"Then we clearly have two very different ideas about diplomacy," Bard commented. He shook his head ruefully. "Conduct your business with the dwarves as you would. But as for my people, we cannot afford to incur any animosity from Erebor. If the winter should prove too harsh, and the reconstruction too slow, it may be Thorin's goodwill which saves our people."

Thranduil looked at him in mild surprise, something less pleasant stirring beneath. "You would seek shelter with the dwarves?"

"If it becomes necessary, yes."

Thranduil fixed Bard with that discerning stare again. It was frustrating to feel as if the elf could skim the thoughts from his mind and toss them away without interest, simply by studying his face. All the same, Bard refused to look away and give in to the elf's intimidation.

"A piece of advice," Thranduil said at last. "It is not wise for a leader to put his people and kingdom wholly in the power of another. If you give Thorin that leverage, he will use it for everything its worth. If you wish for your people to remain in a sovereign nation, you would do well to avoid that mountain."

Bard smiled, but there was no warmth in it. Of course, the elf had a point; but Bard did not miss the fact that Thranduil had his own reasons to discourage closer ties between Erebor and Dale. Bard could recognize when he was being used as a game piece on a board, played against Thorin so that Thranduil could enjoy the profits. "For once, I find myself agreeing with you, Lord Thranduil. It is not wise for one ruler to be at the mercy of another. I will think on your advice most thoroughly."

He rose to his feet, draining the rest of his cup in a long draft and instantly regretting it, pretending not to feel the buzzing in his fingertips and the growing heaviness behind his eyes. Stepping forward, he set his empty cup on the table beside Thranduil with an ironic smile. "If that is all? As I said, there are many things I must attend to."

Thranduil stared at him with something that could have been hostility, or apathy, or perhaps he was debating what to have to dinner. Bard could scarcely tell. "You may go," he allowed, as if Bard had been waiting for permission. "I will call on you when necessary."

"And I will happily respond. If, of course, I am not busy." Bard said it too pointedly for Thranduil to ignore. The elf only responded with a cool smile, as unreadable and provoking as ever. Bard turned and stepped out of the tent before his loose tongue could get the better of him.

The cold air outside cooled Bard's face, warm from the wine and the closeness of the tent. He pulled his coat closer to his body, shooting a look at the two elven guards before making his way back towards the armory. There was much work to be done, especially after spending so long with the Elvenking when he could have been patching, building, using his hands to help others as he had his whole life. His duties as king belonged in a world Bard did not recognize, a world of honeyed words and bright silver, hidden meanings and cold, blue eyes. He'd lived his life steering through the ruins on the lake, the gentle swaying of his boat not so much as kissing the stones as it passed; now he couldn't help but feel that he'd run aground in unfamiliar waters.  He shook the feeling off. Thranduil was not his main concern. At the very worst, all Bard had to fear were more inconvenient summons.

He did not have to wait long.

 

 

 

Bard woke up in the small building he had claimed for his family with a heavy cold lingering in his limbs. Looking up blearily, he saw that Tilda, Bain and Sigrid were huddled together in the other makeshift bed across the room. They, at least, seemed to be sleeping soundly. Admitting there was little chance of falling back asleep, Bard climbed to his feet as quietly as possible and began dressing. There was little else in their new home, a room with piles of bedding and a room with a salvaged table covered in the maps and documents Thranduil had given him to look over. He had scarcely had time to touch them. He spared them a look now, eyes darting over the characters and lines which were somehow important. What seemed more important now was the pit of hunger in his stomach. He set the map down. He would make sure there was something for his children to eat when they woke. Outside there was only quiet—the first light was only just upon them. Bard picked up his bow and quiver and stepped into the streets, heading for the forest.

He passed through the city quickly, noting the piles of rubble and gaping holes in the roofs that were still a common sight. The building efforts went on slowly, far too slow for Bard; it was hard to believe they would have nearly enough of the city remade in time for the first front of winter. But somehow they would have to. Beyond the tumbling stones, the rich fabric of the Elven tents nestled in the nearby courtyard. Bard spared them little more than a glance.

 He nodded to the watchman at the front gate, who immediately stood up straighter and clamped down on his yawn. The wild landscape around the city awaited him, rocky and unforgiving, snow still sheltering in between the crags. Hunting was scarce, but he was lucky—he  came across a warren and shot three rabbits, and made it back to the city as the sun was beginning to wash the cobblestones. Bard returned home with a feeling of accomplishment—their lives may be crumbling around them, but at least he could provide for his family.

That goodwill vanished as soon as he stepped back inside to see Sigrid sitting at the table. Her posture was stiff, awkward—as soon as she saw him she leapt to her feet.

"Da," she said quickly.

Bard's heart plunged. "What is it? Are Bain and Tilda—"

"Your children are all well." The voice was cold. He slowly turned to see Thranduil standing on the other side of the room, his hands clasped behind his back, radiating a remote sort of contempt. His dark, opulent robes were in stark contrast to the grime of Bard's current dwellings. It was hard not to be keenly aware of how bedraggled Bard must look in comparison, how the exhaustion must be so much more obvious on his face.

Bard faced him warily, Sigrid close by his side. She looked ready to take up arms, but relaxed when he squeezed her shoulder. "It's alright. Take your brother and sister to Marta and have her cook these up," he said softly, handing her the rabbits he had caught.

Sigrid nodded, leaning into the other room to gesture for Bain and Tilda. She ushered them out of the door with one final glance of suspicion at Thranduil, leaving Bard and the elf alone. The silence seemed to stretch out between them until it cracked like river-ice. Bard eventually looked away, meandering over to the table and gesturing at one of the chairs. "Please, take a seat. I'm afraid I have no wine to offer you."

Without a word Thranduil moved to take a seat. As usual his movements were smooth and precise, like the movement of a snake on the surface of the river. Sitting at a table that still smelled like the lakewater they'd pulled it out of, he looked utterly out of place—yet somehow he still managed to occupy his seat with an air of regal contempt.  Bard sat down across from him, the unread documents laid on the table like damning evidence between them.

"I did not expect to find you here," Bard said at last.

"I did not expect to find you gone," Thranduil replied. Bard could hear the tension in his voice, tightly reigned back.

Bard gestured at the other room, now empty and silent. "My children needed food—"

"I brought you food," Thranduil snapped. "You don't have time to be scuttling around the countryside. Your talents are wasted in such menial work."

Bard allowed himself a short laugh. "You give me more credit than is due, my lord. Perhaps you forget that I spent my entire life doing such 'menial work' as that."

"Yet you are a king now," Thranduil reminded him. "That life is behind you."

"It was the people of Laketown who gave me that title," Bard said, sharper than he had intended. The shouts of the crowd on the shores of the lake rang as fresh as ever in his mind. He remembered how quickly he'd pulled away when the calls of 'King Bard' first rang out—but it seemed, not quickly enough. "Whatever I may accomplish, it will be with their interests and safety in mind."

Thranduil smiled coldly. "You understand so little of power."

Bard sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Was there something you needed, my lord, or are you merely here to criticize me?"

Wordlessly, Thranduil dipped his fingers inside of the robes he was wearing and produced a folded sheet of paper. He tossed it onto the table between them, where it joined the countless other documents.

"A historical review of previous border disputes between Dale, Erebor, and my people," Thranduil said. "I had planned to go over it with you in case the dwarves tried to make claims to any land that was not theirs by right—but it seems you are busy."

Without another word, Thranduil stood up. Bard followed suit, watching as the elf paused just before the door. Thranduil's eyes travelled over the room, taking in the decrepit stonework and the dirt scraped hastily into the corners. "In the time of your forefathers, the king of Dale took up residence in the city's central keep. You would do well to follow his example—and in the meantime, I suggest you find yourself some clothes more suited to a king than a bargeman."

He swept out of the room before Bard could think to reply, the two guards stationed just outside falling into step behind him. Anger seared in his heart like a brand, but it mingled with a sense of deep resignation. It was all too much. Bard sank back into his chair and stared blankly at the wall for a long moment, his fingers twitching half-heartedly towards the paper Thranduil had left before reaching up to press against his face wearily. He still had to ensure the food was being distributed properly, and that the wounded were being cared for, the rubble cleared…

"Da?" Bard's head snapped out of his hands. Sigrid was standing hesitantly in the doorway, her eyes pinched with concern.

"Where are Tilda and Bain?" Bard asked her with a hoarse voice.

"I left them with Marta," Sigrid said, stepping inside. "Are you alright?"

Bard managed a weak smile. "I'm fine, Sigrid. Nothing but the concerns of old men."

"You're not old." Sigrid settled down across from him, where Thranduil had sat moments earlier. Where his eyes had been harsh with judgment, hers were soft and forgiving. She had seen so much in her time already. Bard had seen her harden up, just as he had seen her break, but she had never forgotten her kindness. That must have been her mother in her. When she smiled at him now, Bard could see it so plainly it hurt. "What did the elf want?"

Bard shuffled the pile of papers in front of him into something resembling an orderly pile. "To help, supposedly."

She paused. A mischievous smile twitched on her lips. "He seemed like a bit of an ass."

"Sigrid!" Bard looked at her in disbelief, but he couldn't stifle a grin. "Where did you learn to speak like that?"

"Am I wrong?" she asked with a  quirk of her eyebrow.

"I won't speak poorly of our noble ally." His smile said otherwise, though it did not last long. It seemed any levity in these times was always short lived.

Sigrid's eyes wandered to the papers in front of him. "It's hard, isn't it?"

Bard rubbed his brow. "Harder than I could have imagined."

Sigrid hesitated. "Da," she said at last. "You can't do everything, you know. You always try to. Ever since—back then." Bard looked up and saw that Sigrid had lowered her eyes, her jaw set. Bard felt a sharp pang in his chest when he looked at her then. She didn't need to specify. After Bard's wife died, he had almost let it destroy him. Things had not been so bad since then, and he had hoped that Sigrid had forgotten. But the pain in her eyes said otherwise.

"You worked yourself so hard back then," Sigrid said, the emotion in her voice tightly controlled. "And there was only the three of us then, Tilda Bain and me, and now _everyone_ needs you, and I just don't want it to—for you to—you look so _tired,_ Da," she whispered, breaking off with a tightening in her jaw.

Bard was on his feet and by her side in an instant, pulling her into a tight embrace, kissing the top of her head fiercely even as he squeezed his own eyes shut.  "It’s alright," he murmured. "I'll be fine. I promise." Sigrid clung to him like she had when she was just a little girl—she was still just a girl, but it was so easy to forget. No sobs shook her body. He knew she would push them down, bury them inside of herself. He could hardly fault her. That much she had learned from him.

When she finally pulled back, he smiled at her as genuinely as he could manage. "Now, come on," he said, nudging her chin with his knuckles. "Let's go find your brother and sister, and make sure they don't eat all the rabbit stew without us."

Sigrid smiled back, and clung to his arm as they walked through the streets. Bard thought back on the times that she would talk for hours on end about the dresses Frigga could make her, or how she would save up enough money to buy a boat just like his. He had never wanted these cares to weigh on her mind, for her to worry about _him._ But for all the promises he could make, he knew that he couldn't stop. As long as people needed help, he couldn't sit by idly. At the very least, he could do a better job of keeping his exhaustion from his children.  

His eyes wandered to the Elven tents as they passed by, though there were no signs of movement inside. He wondered if there had ever been a time when Thranduil had agonized over his people's troubles, driven himself to exhaustion trying to ensure everyone was taken care of. Memories of the elf's cold, apathetic face floated through his mind, and Bard's mouth tightened. If there had been such a time, he couldn't imagine it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell I don't know anything about economics yet? Luckily neither does Bard. Let's just say I'm writing from his perspective ;)
> 
> Find more of my work on [Tumblr](http://curmudgeony.tumblr.com).


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic just didn't want to be born, but at long last here it is. I hope that the fluff makes up for the ridiculous angst.

 

 

Bard sat on the crumbling steps of a gatehouse near the edge of Dale, staring at a weed that wound out of the cracks in the stone. Its leaves were stiff and fuzzy with a white coating of frost. Dawn had only just crept over the horizon, leaving most of the city steeped in blue shadows despite the pale greeting in the sky. It was cold, very cold, and Bard had hardly slept. In only a few minutes the sun would leak into the streets and melt the signs of winter away, but tomorrow the frost would be back. And the day after, and the day after that. Winter was here at last, and they weren't ready.

"Bard?"

He looked up at the sound of his name, no title attached. A woman stood a few paces away, watching him carefully. He recalled her name was Hilda, one who had known him in Laketown before Smaug made a king out of him. She had watched after his children at times while he was away on his barge, and had eagerly begun helping with the reconstruction of Dale. Now her face, so easy to laugh, was creased with worry.

"What can I do for you, Hilda?" he asked, rising to his feet and repressing a wince from his stiff muscles. Perhaps he should not have been sitting the night watch—but he had found the other watchman practically asleep on his feet, and it had seemed foolish to return to his own bed when he would do nothing but lie awake all the same. This way he could feel as if he were accomplishing something by his restlessness, even if his eyelids threatened to drop for much of the following day.

Hilda stepped closer, her hands held stiffly by her sides. That was a bad sign. "They've run into some problems in clearing the Town Hall," she said. "I think you should come with me."

Bard's heart sank. He had counted on that building to be a communal area for eating and sleeping when the climate outside grew too fierce. He had been working alongside his people to clear out the fallen stones and repair the roof for days. It was exhausting work, but he had felt as if he was accomplishing something with every bead of sweat. Until now.

The building loomed over him as they approached it, its stones cracked and worn. Once it had been used as a meeting place for the townspeople—inside it was dark and musty now, but with multiple floors and enough room to house many. When Bard stepped over the threshold, Hilda put a cautionary hand on his arm. "There, my lord," she said, pointing at something against a nearby wall. Squinting at it in the early light, Bard felt a punch of anger and disappointment in his gut. There was a large hole in the floor, easily the length of a man, and the stones around it looked ready to crumble.

"There's a basement under this floor, a storage cellar of sorts," Hilda was saying. "It seems the foundation is falling apart, and taking this floor with it. We can reinforce it, but it will take quite some time."

"How long?" Bard asked sharply. Hilda merely shook her head.

Bard tried not to let his distress show. "Was anyone hurt?" he asked.

"Torof nearly fell in with the floor, but we managed to pull him back just in time," Hilda said.

"Good. That is good," Bard said tonelessly. He ran through the list of other potential buildings in his mind, ones which would be large enough to hold many people, ventilated enough to support a large fire…

"Bard?" Hilda asked. "What should the workers do next?"

The sound of footsteps interrupted them, and Bard turned to see one of Thranduil's couriers waiting at the foot of the great hall's steps. If it were possible, Bard's heart sunk even lower. Yet another distraction.

"Lord Thranduil wishes to speak with you," the courier said. Bard waved him away without a word, turning back to Hilda.

"I'll be back soon. Have the builders start surveying how they could reinforce the rest of the floor," Bard said. "Make sure they're careful. I don't want any injuries." He couldn't afford to have any more idle mouths to feed. Hilda nodded and set out to gather the rest of the workers; Bard turned to see the courier waiting for him to follow. With a heavy heart, he did.

Thranduil was sitting on his makeshift throne when Bard came in. Another reminder of the power he held, no doubt. Bard did not sit down.

Thranduil looked up and fixed him with an impassive stare. "Ah, there you are Lord Bard. A new development has arisen in the contracted lumber use near the periphery of my lands that we need to discuss."

"If you think that wise," Bard replied tiredly. He had little energy for Thranduil's games today. He merely wished to get the meeting over with, to give the elf whatever he wanted so Bard could move on to more pressing issues.

Thranduil seized on his fatigue like a wolf on a lamb. "You sound weary," he said with a cool smile. Bard recognized the challenge in it. "Slaving away for your loyal people? Perhaps we should reschedule our meeting until you are better rested."

Bard glared at him. "I'm afraid this is as energetic as you are likely to find me, Lord Thranduil. We've suffered a major setback on the reconstruction of one of the major buildings, and after sitting the night watch—"

"You stood watch?" Thranduil interrupted him. Bard was surprised by the warning in his voice.

"All able-bodied men and women must take a turn," Bard said. "It's a fair system." 

Thranduil looked at him with exasperation. "Fair, perhaps. But hardly a duty befitting a king."

Bard's fists tightened. It was true that the last time he slept seemed as distant as the memory of his bed in Laketown. Perhaps if he was better rested he could simply ignore the slight. As it was, he had nothing left to hold the anger back. "As I see it, there is nothing wrong with a bit of honest work. You might even try it sometime."

The note of resentment in Bard's voice hung in the air. Thranduil smiled at him as if he were a foolish child. "You suggest that I am indolent."

Bard could see it in his eyes, see the contempt, the dismissal. He doubted the elf even saw him as a person—he was no more to him than another sheet of paper, to be tediously filled out and then cast away once he had been crossed out and whittled away to the Elvenking's liking. Perhaps that was why he crossed his arms, stared Thranduil in the eye, and smiled back. "Yes. I do."

Thranduil rose from the throne and drifted over to that infernal pitcher of wine. He poured just one glass this time. But instead of raising the cup to his lips, he offered it to Bard with an ironic smile. "You look like you need this."

Bard stared at it as if it were a dagger held out hilt-first. Looking up, he saw the coy smile on Thranduil's lips widen ever so slightly. The elf expected him to reject it. Yet if he took it, he would be giving in to Thranduil's power play. Whatever Bard did, he was snarled in a knot of consequences, double-meanings that he had no time to unravel. He decided not to bother trying. Without breaking eye contact, Bard seized the proffered cup and brought it straight to his lips, taking a long draft while Thranduil watched, that infuriating smile ever intact. Bard felt the alcohol hit his empty stomach like a spark of dragonfire, heat rising through him and fanning his anger all the hotter.

Thranduil began to pace in a slow circle, watching Bard out of the corner of his eyes. "Let me explain something to you," he said in a tone which brooked no argument. "I have ruled my people for longer than you can possibly comprehend. I have seen the ravages of war, the empty hunger of famine, and the rise and fall of many kingdoms." In his circuit Thranduil passed behind him—Bard refused to turn and watch him, to give any indication he was on edge. When he stepped back into Bard's field of vision, he was much closer than Bard had anticipated. Yet even when Thranduil stood directly before him, his unforgiving eyes piercing Bard's like the treacherous ice on the lake, Bard did not flinch away.

"Through all of this, I have endured," Thranduil said softly. The smile had faded as if it had never been there, leaving only coldness in its wake. "And yet after scarcely a month of being a leader, you see fit to try and teach me how to rule." He shook his head, not once releasing Bard from his gaze. "Forgive me if I do not take advice from a man who abandons his duties to go scrabbling around in the dirt."  

"And is this what it means to be a ruler?" Bard demanded. "Drinking wine and discussing taxes while people freeze in the streets?"

"Yes, it is," Thranduil said simply. For a moment, Bard thought he saw a flicker of something in the Elvenking's eyes—an old pain, perhaps, a twinge of sympathy that might have looked more at home on Thranduil's face centuries ago. It was gone a moment later as the elf turned away, his hands clasped behind his back. "You can do more good for your people with ink and paper than with a day of backbreaking labor. It's a king they need now, not another pair of hands."

"They made me responsible for their lives," Bard gritted out. He wished that Thranduil would turn, face him in conversation as if they were equals. But he merely stood far away, his pale hair spilling down his back, as sympathetic as the crumbling statues that held vigil all over Dale.

"Your dedication is admirable, if naïve," Thranduil said, his voice sounding strangely hollow. "One thing you will come to learn is that you cannot save everyone. It will be easier if you simply accept it now."

"What then?" Bard asked, the cup of wine in his hands the only thing stopping him from throwing them up in frustration. "You would tell me to not even try? You would have me do nothing?"

At last Thranduil faced him. "I would have you stop attempting to single-handedly save every soul in this city. You spend all your days moving stones and sitting by sickbeds, rather than trusting such tasks to those better suited to them. You will work yourself to death before spring, and then your people will be truly alone. I see the strain of it on you even now." Thranduil's eyes trailed over Bard's body as he spoke, taking in the slump of his shoulders, the unhealthy cast of his skin.

There was something too predatory in that look for Bard to take his concerns as a kindness. He resisted the urge to cross his arms over his chest protectively. Instead, he lifted his chin and met Thranduil's gaze without fear, raising the wine to his lips and downing it in a single draft. Thranduil watched the motion as closely as a cat in front of a mouse hole. The heat searing in Bard's belly gave him the strength he needed as he set the cup down on the table beside him.

"Perhaps if more kings spent time moving stones instead of lusting after treasure, their people would have more food and fewer sorrows," he said levelly. "I value the dirt under my fingernails over all the gold in that mountain. If there is anything I can do to help my people, be it as lowly as spooning out broth, then I will do so, and gladly."

After a moment, Thranduil drew back a step, his eyes narrowed. "Tell me," he said quietly. "Who keeps the peace in your city?"

Bard raked his memory for the man's name, apprehension rising at the elf's sudden stillness. "Albin is the head of the guard. His men maintain order."

"And who will pay them?" Thranduil asked. As he spoke he drew closer, step by step, his voice smooth and irrefutable. "Who decides their wages? Who will manage your kingdom's treasury? Who will supply their weapons, their armor? Would you propose to do all such things yourself as well, or will you be too busy spooning out broth? Where will the food come from, when Dale has no crops or trade agreements because its king was too busy hunting rabbits?"  

By the time Thranduil had finished speaking he was standing scarcely a foot away. Bard remained silent, damming his anger behind his teeth. He let Thranduil's words lash out at him, cold and precise, laden with an edge of anger that Bard yet to hear directed at him. "If none survive this winter, diplomacy will not matter."

"Enough will survive to rebuild your kingdom." Thranduil looked away, disinterested.

" _Enough_?" Bard cried in disbelief. "Are people nothing more than numbers to you?"

Thranduil was watching him closely. Bard knew he could see the anger rising, even as the elf remained calm—Bard could see the exact moment when Thranduil dismissed him before he even spoke. "Men are simplistic. I had hoped for more from you."

"Would you have me apologize?" Bard's hands were shaking now. "You care nothing for us."

Thranduil tilted his head back, folding his hands over his waist in a pose that revealed nothing but regal superiority. "I merely see the scope that you cannot. The years have brought me wisdom."

"They have made you cold." Bard's words slipped out as quietly as a knife. Anger was beating a drum in the center of Bard's chest, quickened by the daze of wine. It twisted inside him like something alive, prying his jaws open and letting the words pour out before Bard could stop them. "You station your soldiers around the mountain to ensure no dwarves try to creep away with your precious gems, while my people work themselves to the bone simply trying to live. And where will your troops stay once the snow begins to fall in earnest? Do you expect us to clear the space for you as well?" He shook his head with a slow, vicious smile. "No, of course not. You will go back to your forests as soon as there is nothing left of value for you here, and leave us all to freeze. Do not deny it," Bard said sharply as Thranduil began to speak. "There is no reason for you to stay."

The elf regarded him with chilly detachment. "You misunderstand me, Bard."

"I think I understand you well enough," Bard said bitterly. "I know our troubles mean nothing to you. Why should they? We are merely a passing thing, an early frost melted away before your eyes. You have no compassion."

Once the words had left his lips, the silence that fell in the tent felt barren and empty. For the first time it seemed Thranduil's face had opened to him—on it Bard saw a hint of shock, mingled with what could have been pain, if Bard had not known better. Thranduil felt no pain. Inside him there was only cold. Suddenly Bard wanted to be anywhere but there, to turn his back on Thranduil and the sick feeling rising in his stomach. His feet carried him to the tent flap before he could think of a reason to stop himself. He paused, the anger twining and twisting with guilt in his gut, and he turned back. Thranduil was turned to the side, his eyes fixed on nothing—the face he wore was as smooth as glass, as impenetrable as steel.

"I suggest you leave." It was not a command Bard could refuse, despite the emotion that eddied under the carefully constructed apathy in Thranduil's voice. Part of Bard wanted to know what would happen if he should stay. He knew that he would never find out.

He turned and left. No one moved to stop him. The winter air was as cold as a slap on his face as he strode down the path, not looking back. The fury in his chest was quickly hardening into fear—fear that he had said too much to take back, fear that the elves would withdraw and leave his people to the winter's mercy. Fear that on some level, Thranduil had been right; that to do what was best for his people, Bard would have to become as cold and unfeeling as the Elvenking. Bard's hands clenched into fists as he walked, but even the dying heat of his anger wasn't enough to ward off the cold closing in on his heart. 

 

 

 

The next morning Bard awoke feeling like a boat unmoored in deep water, drifting, far from anything familiar. He lay in bed a long while, listening to the quiet stirrings of his children as the cold leeched into his limbs. The words he had spoken the night before seemed to come over him in waves, each one bringing fresh regret that slipped dull and numbing through his ribs.

What had he done? Bard pressed his palms to his face, letting his breath out in a long, slow hiss. He had been a fool to let his anger run away with him, no matter how justified it had felt at the time. Whatever differences might come between them, the Elvenking had offered Bard's people aid when all others turned them away. Thranduil was an enemy that Bard could not afford to make.

Yet he was more than that. It wasn't the alliance between them that Bard first thought of upon waking—it was the moments in between, the snatches of conversation spoke around trade agreements, the quiet companionship shared over cups of wine. It had been a long time since Bard had known someone he could even argue with, for that too required a rhythm and comfort he had not found in many others. In all the time they had spent together, it was only now that Bard realized they had built something that he would be unhappy to let slip away. And yet he had cast that delicate accord aside before he'd had time to know it even existed.

Bard shook his head, forcing himself out of his own mind. Thranduil did not respect him or his people. No friendship could be built on such a rotten foundation. Bard had gone without his company before the dragon came. He could do so again, even if the thought left a dull ache in his breast.

He rose from his bed and, after a moment's hesitation, padded over to the window in the other room. He expected to see only blue sky where Thranduil's standards had once flown, the bright glimpses of tent fabric leaving only grey stone in their wake. But when he looked out on the city, the Elven tents stood just as they had the night before.

His heart seemed to beat slightly faster as he regarded the colorful fabric. Perhaps Thranduil was merely remaining another day to make preparations. Yet if Bard knew him at all, he would have thought to find the elf gone at the earliest possible opportunity if he planned to leave at all. Even if Thranduil had decided to stay, the rift between them would remain. It would be best to put thoughts of the Elvenking from his mind. There was much work to be done, buildings to be reinforced, meals to be prepared…

Bard turned away from the window. The weight of the day ahead is practically enough to crush him. No matter how much he does, there is always more to be done—he thought it was his duty to help wherever he could, but his eyes unconsciously slid to the stack of papers still sitting on the table. There was no one to read those documents while Bard went out to work in the kitchens and infirmaries. With slow, hesitant steps, he walked over and picked up a sheet on top. The words seemed to squirm off the page in black snarls of ink, but as he read them over their meaning became clear.

He found himself sitting down at the table, his eyes scanning the paper and struggling to understand their contents until his children came sleepy-eyed from their room and asked him if there was any food. Only then did he set the papers aside, but their words followed him through the day and settled over him like flies when he lay down to sleep. The next morning he repeated his routine, and slowly the stack began to shrink.

As the days passed, it was almost strange to for no Elven messenger to come calling him to Thranduil's tent. He used to see such interruptions as the bane of his daily life, but looking back, they had been a short respite from the crushing task of rebuilding a city in a matter of weeks. At times he would see an elf moving through the city in his direction, and only after they had passed would Bard's heart settle once again. After long enough, he forced himself to stop expecting Thranduil to call for him. It was a cold acceptance that he forced on himself, but he told himself it was necessary. The Elvenking was not one to take insults lightly. The harm Bard had done would likely last a lifetime.

 

 

 

Bard was bowed over the hard earth of a vegetable plot when he heard it. He had been helping to clear the city plots of debris and hardy weeds so they would be ready for planting in the summer when the air began to shudder with the rhythmic stamping of feet. Bard's neck snapped up from his work, immediately forgetting the crumbling rocks he had been struggling to uproot. Such organized movement could mean only one thing—the elves were on the move.

He stood up quickly, dusting the cold dirt from his hands as he struggled to fight down the growing fear in his chest. Perhaps Thranduil had wrested his gems from the mountain at last, and was hurrying home before the worst of the cold arrived. Bard would not admit to himself that he had begun to feel accustomed to the elves' presence in Dale. He certainly wouldn't acknowledge that he had started to let himself hope.

With a  quick word he excused himself and made for a narrow alley nearby, following its winding path in the direction of the sound. Away from the main street, the area was still crumbling under weeds and ancient damage that they had yet to begin to restore. Clambering around fallen stone and creeping vines, Bard finally managed to reach the gap where the alley opened up onto the parallel street.

A column of elves marched side by side down the center of the street, shoulders stiff, eyes straight ahead. In the shadows as he was, none of them spared Bard a glance. With dull pang of resignation, he realized Thranduil had decided to withdraw without so much as a formal goodbye. Bard supposed that was as much as he deserved, but that didn't dull the sting of it. He ought to turn away, harden his heart and let the Elvenking go. It was not so long ago that Bard would have been glad to see the back of him. Yet he could not seem to tear his eyes from the crowd, scanning it for a face he recognized.  

A sudden glimpse of white-blonde hair made Bard's stomach twist. Thranduil was on foot, and walking among his soldiers with a reserved expression. He wore his usual finery, but the longer Bard watched he realized that the soldiers were not dressed in the battle armor they had arrived in; they had instead donned leather and linens that, while cleaner than the average Laketown man's garb, were clearly designed for function rather than form.

With a final word in Elvish, the soldiers came to a stop and turned to face their king. He began calling out orders in quick succession, occasionally raising a hand to gesture at one part of the city or another. Before Bard could hazard a guess at what purpose Thranduil might have, the soldiers were already moving. There was little menace to them, though; in fact, they began fanning out among the rubble, stopping to shift the rocks and form piles, even pulling weeds out of the cobbles. Thranduil watched them coolly, not deigning to stoop to such work himself, but present all the same.

Bard hung back in the shadow of the crumbling building, simply watching. With a start, he realized what they were doing—the rubble was cleared away quickly under the elves' deft, strong hands, moved into neat piles. Tough vines were battered out of doorways, rotting furniture scraped out into the street. The elves were helping to clear the city, and faster than Bard's haggard people could have ever hoped to.

A small, hesitant smile flitted over Bard's lips as he watched Thranduil from the shelter of the alleyway. Was it possible Thranduil had not only heard his words, but heeded them? He found that difficult to believe. Bard had spoken of his indolence and neglect, but never expected Thranduil to change. Yet the evidence was before his eyes that something in the Elvenking had shifted. With the elves working on clearing the city, there was a chance that everyone would have a place to stay warm when the first snows came.

Bard felt the urge to step from his alcove, to approach Thranduil for the first time since their confrontation. But he was not sure what reception he would receive, or even what he could say. The words of an apology seemed to lodge in Bard's throat as soon as he thought of them, and so for the moment he held back. It was strange to watch Thranduil unobserved, seeing a side of the elf that hadn't been carefully constructed for his benefit. The cool mask of reserve was firmly in place, but for once Bard felt he could see the cracks.

Without warning, Thranduil turned and cast a look towards the alley, and Bard found himself locking eyes with Thranduil's blue ones as if the elf had known Bard was there the whole time. Emotion flashed over Thranduil's face, a hint of surprise, or perhaps even anxiety, before the smooth facade returned. They simply watched each other, wary, yet there was no hostility in either of their gazes. Rather than feeling the old wounds of their argument open, Bard felt a strange sort of emptiness—not the absence of feeling, but the preparation for it. Like a plot of earth before the shoots began to sprout, or a stage just before the first player took their place. It seemed to him that the urge to cross the distance between them was not only his own—he saw it reflected in Thranduil's eyes, and Bard knew then that the Elvenking would not so quickly forsake him.

There were no words Bard could find in that moment of understanding. He could only stand dumb, wanting nothing more than to step into the street and find the words to break the silence that had always hung between them, at times even when the pair of them were speaking. Such declarations were beyond him. But as he watched, Thranduil lifted his hand from his side, cupping it against his chest and extending it towards Bard in an Elven salute. Bard had seen it done before, but this seemed different—his hand had pressed to his chest rather than hovering over it, and his fingers lingered in the air as if they were grasping for something just out of reach.

Bard could hardly marshal his thoughts quickly enough to repeat the gesture, fumbling and hesitant but with total sincerity. Thranduil's face remained as smooth and remote as ever, but there was something in his eyes that had the softness of blue sky after a storm had passed. It was a look Bard would have welcomed more often.

He turned away a moment later, leaving Bard with a warmth blossoming in his stomach as he watched the elf continue to organize his workers. With one final look that lingered more than it should have, Bard slipped back down the alley to his own people. The hand which he had extended to Thranduil was clutched unconsciously at his side, as if it held something precious pressed tight to his palm. The smile on his face proved contagious for the rest of the day. He returned home feeling more energetic than he could remember, and when Sigrid crept out of the bedroom to see him bowed intently over the stack of papers, she merely kissed his cheek with a smile and did not urge him to rest.

 

 

 

A few days afterwards, Bard was inspecting the weapons which Albin had salvaged from Laketown or restored from the stock left at Dale. It was the bows which most interested him in truth, and Albin suggested he take one to test its quality with his skill. The one Bard had selected was a welcome weight in his hand, comfortable in its familiarity. He had not held such a weapon since that night of fire at the top of the tower when he had brought the dragon down.

As he made his way the short distance to the practice yard, the differences he noted were striking. Bard saw the effects Thranduil's sudden aid was having on the city and the people in it—it seemed a pall had lifted from the air, and people's faces were less darkened by the days ahead. The elves had begun mingling with the people of Laketown instead of remaining cloistered in their tents—Bard saw them eating and laughing at the same tables, training together in the practice yard. Perhaps  it wasn't a revolution, but it was a step forward when they'd had to relearn how to walk.

Archers were stationed at every target in the yard when Bard arrived, steadily filling each up with arrows. Rather than ask one of them to step aside Bard was prepared to leave. He would return another time—for now, he was glad to see many elves among his men, giving pointers and even exchanging jokes. With a start, Bard recognized the white-blond hair of one of the archers drawing a bow. There was no one standing beside him to share in a laugh, but all his arrows flew to their mark. Thranduil seemed to have forsaken his robes for something less opulent and more practical, yet still worth more than Bard would have been likely to see in a lifetime. The Elvenking had not seen Bard—it would be easy to simply slip away. The swell of nervousness which Bard could not explain urged him to do just that. But the memory of the moment they had shared over the remains of the broken city drove Bard to hold his ground. He knew he would not be able to stay away forever. He no longer wanted to.

Bard hung back for a while, watching the elf shoot. He was, as expected, a master. That infuriating serenity that constantly plastered his face whenever he and Bard had a conversation had dropped, his features set in a frown of either concentration or exertion with every arrow. It was captivating, almost beautiful, to watch the elf work. For all his skill, Bard doubted he could rival the grace with which Thranduil moved.

Bard stepped forward at last, moving to stand at Thranduil's side without getting in the way of his practice. Thranduil saw him almost immediately, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before he inclined his head in greeting. When the silence stretched between them for a moment longer, Thranduil drew another arrow. At last, Bard found the words to speak.

"So, the Elvenking is capable of breaking a sweat," he said lightly, as if the last words that passed between them hadn't been aimed to cut deep.

Thranduil spared him a glance, hardly pausing in his routine. "Elves do not sweat." Despite their brevity, there was a warmth behind the words that Bard had not dared hope for. "I am increasing patrols to hunt down any remaining orcs in this wilderness," Thranduil clarified after a moment. "My soldiers need to remain focused."

"And you're setting a fine example." It felt strange to return to their hold patterns, as if they were stepping around a broken vase in the middle of a familiar room. Bard wanted to pick up the pieces, he just wasn't sure how to begin. He started with a smile.

Thranduil raised an eyebrow at the bow still slung over his back. "And are you here to hone your craft, Bowman?"

Bard shook his head. "Merely to examine the talent here. Perhaps offer some pointers." He scrutinized the elf's form as he said it, a playful smile springing to his lips. "In fact, I recommend taking a bit of a wider stance, and angling your toes—"

Without pause, Thranduil seized three arrows from the store at his feet and fired one after another so fast Bard hardly saw it, directly into the heart of the target. He turned to Bard with a pointed glare, but Bard was already laughing.

"I suppose you're good enough," he allowed.

"I suppose I'm no Dragonslayer," Thranduil shot back. But underneath the needling, Bard saw something hesitant in Thranduil's eyes. Something that didn't size him up so much as ask a silent question that Bard didn't dare to grasp.

"Your soldiers have done a good job in repairing some of the houses," Bard commented offhandedly.

"The dwarves demanded I withdraw my troops from their posts around Erebor, or they would consider it an act of war," Thranduil said. "I thought it best to put them to good use in the meantime."

"Aren't you afraid they'll steal away in the night with your precious gems?"

"Not now that winter has come. Not if they don't want to freeze," Thranduil said.

"Well, all the same," Bard said, shifting his posture and trailing his eyes from the ground to look at Thranduil with glint in his eyes, "I think it's only fair to thank you."

Thranduil looked away. "Your gratitude is—"

"—Misplaced, I know," Bard said, a brief smile on his lips. "But I wasn't finished. I also wished to offer you an apology."

Thranduil's face showed no response. "An apology?"

Bard nodded. He glanced away briefly, shifting his feet beneath him. He felt the weight of what had passed between them all the more keenly now, but there were words he had to say before he could leave it behind. "When last we spoke, I said things I would now wish for you to forget. I did not mean them."

Thranduil raised his bow to sight along the arrow, but he did not release it. "Yes, you did," he said at last, lowering the arrow without firing it. "But you were right to say them. My actions were calculated when they should have been compassionate. For that, I too am sorry." The tension in the string slackened, leaving the arrow unfired. Thranduil turned back to Bard with an intensity in his gaze Bard had not expected. "You believe I see your people as insignificant. That is not the case. For all the wisdom of the Elves, there is no doubting the stoutness of Men's hearts. Perhaps I have forgotten how to properly express it, but in you I see  valued ally, an equal." He hesitated. "I had thought, even, to call you a friend."

Bard blinked, fighting down the warmth that flooded his chest. "Then it seems you were right. I did misunderstand you. …It pleases me greatly to hear you refer to us as friends." He held out his hand. Days ago he had made a similar gesture, separated by what had felt like an insurmountable distance. But after a brief moment of hesitation Thranduil's hand rose to clasp Bard's own. The elf's fingers were firm and surprisingly warm.

"I would hope to retain that friendship," Bard said, his voice emerging surprisingly soft.

The faint hint of a smile touched Thranduil's lips. "And you shall." 

The two of them shared a quiet moment, their hands clasped tightly until Bard released him first. He was not entirely sure why he had the sudden urge to laugh, relief and happiness competing inside him. Instead, he raised an eyebrow.

"By the way, I think it's only fair to warn you," Bard said with a solemn nod to the archery range. "If you keep this up, you risk getting some dirt under your fingernails."

Thranduil returned his look seriously. "I suppose that is a risk I will have to take."

Bard inclined his head, unable to repress a grin. "Then I will leave you to it. Until our next meeting, Lord Thranduil."

 The elf nodded in return, something warm in his expression that Bard couldn't quite place. "May it that time come quickly."

"I'm sure you'll find something to summon me for," Bard said over his shoulder, enjoying the look he caught Thranduil fixing on his back. Bard straightened the bow and quiver he was to test over his shoulder, resolving to hold onto it until he had the opportunity to give Albin an honest judgment, and headed for home with a smile on his lips.

He had not made it far when a familiar figure caught up to him on the street. Hilda's eyes were wide, but for once it was not with distress.

"Bard," she hailed him. "Come with me. There's something you should see."

Hilda led him to the Town Hall nearby, stopping in the doorway. Where once there had been a gaping hole in the floor, the stones were mortared back into place. "The elves have helped us reinforce the foundations and repair the floor. It's still a ways to go before it's ready to live in, but at the very least it's safe," Hilda said, gesturing for Bard to test it out. It felt sturdy enough—he turned to Hilda and, after a questioning quirk of his eyebrow, gave a jump to test it out. When he didn't go crashing through the floor, Bard figured it was a job well done.

"We can start moving the families in as soon as the fireplaces are cleared," Hilda said, fighting down a smile. They both knew how much having this building meant to the people of Dale. It was more than a place to stay—it was a symbol of what they were working to rebuild, and they needed it now than ever. Perhaps it was a symbol that Bard and Thranduil's people could work together, as well. Bard certainly hoped so.

"You've done wonderfully, Hilda," he said.

"Well, don't thank me," she replied a tad sheepishly. "We couldn't have done it so fast without help."

Bard shook his head. "It's true, the elves have given us the assistance we needed. But you have worked hard on this project from the beginning—this success belongs to you as much as them." Bard took a breath. Thranduil's word's returned to him: _I would have you stop attempting to single-handedly save every soul in this city_. If Thranduil could make comprises, so would he. "Which is why I am going to put you in charge of the reconstruction efforts all over the city. If you would agree to it."

Hilda's eyes widened in surprise. "Why, I—yes, of course! I've had many ideas about what to do with the eastern residences, and—" She cut herself off with a wry smile. "I would be honored, my King."

Bard inclined his head. "You will do a fine job. And if you please, could you tell Albin and Kelsar I would like to see them?" He would discuss the guard's payroll with Albin, and see that Kelsar's talents as a seamstress were put to use training those that could better help her—and Gertin had always been dependable and skilled with figures, he could discuss matters of Dale's future wealth with him… With every responsibility he could divide to one more qualified to accept it than himself, he felt a little more at peace. It was as if Bard had been trapped in a large room in which all the doors were shut, and suddenly they were opening, one by one.

His eyes turned to the staircase in the back corner, one side going up and the other down. He remembered a small tower from the top of the Town Hall, rising above most of the city. An idea sprung unbidden into his mind as his hands found the bow still slung over his back. A fool's idea, so perhaps it suited him well. "What about the upper levels?" he asked Hilda. "Have those been cleared?"

"No one's been up there yet," Hilda said.

Bard nodded, a mischievous smile spreading over his features. "Go find the others, and meet me with them in the armory in half an hour. I will be there soon."

Hilda shook her finger at him even as he moved away. "If you come crashing through the floor up there and break both your legs, Bowman, I won't be the one to take the blame for it."

He made his way up the steps, moving lightly on his feet and ready to pull himself aside in case of a collapse. Hilda wisely remained below, shaking her head and muttering about the stubbornness of men. The steps brought Bard up to a second level, covered in cobwebs but surprisingly sturdy. He moved around the sunken areas of the floor, heading for a second staircase he saw leading up to a small watchtower on the roof. The steps groaned ominously, but he moved at a steady and purposeful pace until at last he had reached the top.

The sunlight was bright and clear here, an early winter's sun, pale yet still strong enough to warm his face. The roof of the tower had fallen somewhere below, leaving it open to the faint breeze that came meandering down from the mountainside. The city of Dale spilled out around him, all slouching roofs and small figures making their way to their various duties, and beyond it lay the lake and the mountain.

It was a beautiful sight, truly—but it wasn't what he was here for. With a keen eye, he quickly espied the nearby archery range where Thranduil was still practicing. It was a good distance away, but Bard had struck true on harder targets than this. He took the bow from his shoulder, feeling the wood beneath his hands. It was a good weapon. It would due. He notched an arrow, aimed. His breath seeped out in a slow exhalation. A moment later he let the arrow fly, watching it sail in a perfect arc far over the heads of the townspeople, unnoticed by most, until it landed with a satisfying clunk he could just scarcely hear in the heart of Thranduil's target.

The elven king turned around, surprise and suspicion creasing his brow as eyes scanned the rooftops. It did not take him long to see Bard.  The look of confusion faded into a rueful shake of his head. Bard saluted with his bow, laughing quietly. Across such a distance, it might have been strange for Thranduil to hold his gaze for so long, even after the smiles had turned quieter. He did not know what it was he saw in the Elvenking's eyes, but he was glad of it all the same. The air was cold, promising to grow only colder—but this was a good day. When Bard made his way to the meeting a short while later, it was with a broad smile still plastered on his face.

 

 

 

The next day Bard made his way up to Thranduil's tent, pausing briefly before the flaps. He had last stood on this very ground on very different terms. In the weeks before, he had come and gone from Thranduil's tent only when the Elvenking had asked it of him. This was the first time he had approached it on his own initiative, and yet he felt no apprehension as he parted the  tent flap.

Thranduil was leaning over his table of maps, and looked up as Bard stepped inside. "Bard," he said, a flicker of surprise darting over his features. "I don't recall asking for you."

Bard's lips twisted. "I did not realize that I needed an invitation."

The surprise was quickly replaced by an expression of mild amusement. "Of course not. Please, have a seat."

Bard settled into what he suspected would become his usual chair, and accepted Thranduil's usual cup of wine. The elf settled down across from him, not on the throne this time, and watched him with an edge of something unfamiliar. Neither of them drank.

"May I ask what brings you here?" Thranduil asked at last.

"I suppose you may," Bard said. "I had a question about… tax reform." As he spoke, he withdrew some of the crumpled papers from his coat, settling them on his lap.

Thranduil's eyebrows raised. "Tax reform. Really."

"Indeed."

"And you're here on your own free will?"

"I can't much believe it myself," Bard replied wretchedly, but there was a hint of mirth in his eyes. They both took a sip at last, the wine sweet and rich on Bard's tongue and lighting a pleasant flame in his stomach.

Thranduil tilted his head. "No more stones left to move?"

"I've recently received a little extra help with that," Bard said lightly, shifting the papers before him. "And so now I seem to find myself with a little free time."

"Hmm," Thranduil said, avoiding further comment. Instead, he reached to the side of his chair and held something up. It was an arrow, too crudely made to be Elven. "I believe this belongs to you."

Bard accepted it, idly testing the point on a fingertip. He didn't comment on the fact that the elf had held onto it until now. Instead, he handed it back with a grin. "Keep it. A souvenir from the Dragonslayer."

Thranduil rolled his eyes. "I might need to expand this tent to make room for your vanity," he said.

Bard leaned back as he chuckled, the wine already heating a warm, comfortable pit in his stomach. "So. Tax reform." He winced theatrically. "Tell me everything I need to know, before I think the better of it."

A small smile touched the edges of Thranduil's lips. It seemed the most genuine expression Bard had ever seen on his face. "Very well. There's no going back now, I'm afraid."

Bard returned the smile, looking away after a moment. He could not find the words to say what he wanted to say—that if there was no going back, he no longer wanted to. But there was no silence between them as Bard and Thranduil spoke now, whiling the hours away over wine and diplomacy. When there were no words, something else expanded to fill the gaps, as thick in the air as honey. Perhaps not all things needed to be said. When Thranduil looked at him across the papers between them, Bard suspected they understood each other.

In the land around Dale winter closed its jaws, but in Thranduil's tent it was warm. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first part of a series I'm going to be working over as time marches on, perhaps completing it for the Barduil Big Bang. I do see Thranduil and Bard's relationship as being ultimately romantic in this universe, but I also believe it would develop very slowly over time--so basically I'm going to write a 50,000 word story, dang it why does this always happen to me. 
> 
> Come to my [tumblr](http://curmudgeony.tumblr.com) and yell at me about things.

**Author's Note:**

> Can you tell I don't know anything about economics yet? Luckily neither does Bard. Let's just say I'm writing from his perspective ;)
> 
> Find more of my work on [Tumblr](http://curmudgeony.tumblr.com).


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